Footsteps.
You awaken instantly, your heart already racing, your stomach muscles beginning to knot with dread, a sour taste rising in your throat.
"Only a bad dream, girl, only a dream," you whisper, trying to calm yourself, glancing at the luminous dial on the nightstand: 2:12 a.m. But you know it isn't just a nightmare; and you shudder as the sound of the faint footsteps register now on your waking consciousness, approaching footsteps on the sidewalk above your tiny basement flat, the sound pattern so familiar, actually unique among the thousands of others that pass by at all hours.
You gather the bedcovers around yourself for security, staring up fearfully at the tiny window high on the wall looking out onto the busy street, the streetlamp on the corner casting pale yellow light into your apartment. Impulsively, you clasp your hands to your ears, hoping to shut out the sound, but it's too late. The old heavy-heel ... scraping-toe pattern echoes in your head now, heightening all your senses like a reverberating migraine. You hear, see, feel acutely, the faint trace of your own lemony-spice scent cloying at your nostrils. And the stormy-gray walls of the tiny apartment close in around you oppressively.
Trapped.
Your hands slide lifelessly back to the covers, and you listen anxiously as the outside footsteps become louder and louder, reaching a deafening level--
Abrupt silence, a shadowy silhouette at the window blocking out most of the dim streetlight.
You suck in a deep breath, fearing that your hammering heart will give away your heightened awareness. No, no, please, you pray in your head, letting your breath trickle out across your dry lips ever so slowly.
An eternity of silence outside.
Suddenly, the familiar heavy-heel ... scraping-toe sound begins again, the footsteps walking away slowly and disappearing into the other night sounds of the city.
But you are not fooled.
Oh, no.
He knows where you are now, somehow sensing your presence from the street; and you know that he knows.
You suck in another deep breath and throw aside the bed covers, before stumbling into the bathroom, convinced he will be back sometime soon; and you fear that you are unable to go through all of this again--the jagged-edge dread, the frantic flight, the scurrying about for a new hiding place...
Not again.
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